Writings
by GypsyGrl77
Summary: I don’t understand. Why won’t he talk with us? What’d we do?
1. Chapter 1

_I own nothing. Thanks to Sparkling Mist for being my beta for this chapter._

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I have not been doing much lately

I have not been doing much lately. I don't really see the point any longer.

Presently, I have been subjecting myself to the most limited of activities. Well, even _that_ would be saying too much. I only really do one thing anymore. I only breathe because a charm makes me continue to do so. I only eat because a lady forces the food down my throat, and uses spells to put nutrients and vitamins straight into my bloodstream. I only hear because every time I stuff makeshift plugs in my ears, someone takes them out. I only move when an outside force does the motion for me. I do not speak at all, which may be one of the only controls I have at the moment.

The only activity that I actively participate in is watching, and this is the solitary reason that the world knows I'm not brain-dead and keeps me alive. Well, that and the fact that I am the savior of them all and I have yet to finish the job. I am fairly certain that had I already killed Voldemort; no one would be going to quite such lengths. Sure, a huge statue would be put up in my honor, with heartfelt words scribed into the stone by a man who has never met The Boy Who Lived, and a day would be named in my memory due to all of my heroic deeds and other such nonsense. Nevertheless, everyone would move on without me around. They just still need me to be a weapon.

I am rambling. I have a feeling I will be doing this a lot in my writings. Because I have decided to include another activity in my daily actions. I will write every day, simply for myself, after they shut down the hospital and stop the flow of visitors that I never even grant a second glance. I need some sort of outlet, and the notebook left here for me, which most presume I threw out, will become that for me in this desperate time. No one can ever see this. No one but me, and that is exactly how I wish it to be. No one else deserves to know anything about me, as far as I am concerned.

Although I don't see why anyone would want to read this. It will only be the mindless scribbles of one believed insane, or lost to the rational world in any case, of his typical day. This, as a warning, will be pretty boring.

As I only look now, I am quite limited in my ability to entertain myself, as no one else is going to help in this front. They are all pretty sure I can't even understand them any longer. If only that were truly the case—I wish I couldn't hear what they say. However, usually I just block out the words by studying my room until I know every crack, dent, and shadow available for me to take in. It is like a puzzle for me to solve every day, to see if I can discover something different or new to examine, to remember, to carry with me. And now, to write down.

One of my favorite places to gaze is the ceiling. It is like a limitless hidden picture game, where swirls can change from rabbits in a calm field one morning to a serene boy strumming a guitar the next. It is as if whatever I want to see, to be, to believe, can be found in some part of the expansive white plaster. Much of how I interpret the ceiling depends on my mood. If I am having a good day, I may be lucky enough to spot a snitch in the corner by the fuzzy television, or a stag running above the frame of the door. Once, on a particularly splendid afternoon without any visitors, I even spotted a large dog colored black by a shadow. On the other hand, a difficult intruder or an impatient doctor can cause me to discover vicious dragons or the occasional flowing veil lurking right above my head. Of course, as I have been declared unstable in many different instances by several different people, I suppose my head could be creating the images. I prefer to believe that I am simply creative.

The walls are completely different from the ceiling. They are perfect in their smoothness and simplicity. The deep blue paint, meant to calm the patient into an easy mood, reminds me of the summers when I would sneak away from the house and sit under the neighbor's oak tree, free to relax for a moment and gaze at the sky before I was forced into more chores or chased by the bullies once again. The cobalt is beautiful, and when I wish to escape, I just blankly take in its loveliness, ceasing my searching briefly. There is nothing complicated about the blue, and it demands nothing but a steady eye. I wish more things in life were like the blue. The borders are a dull yellow, like a sun blurred by sunglasses in midmorning. The color is ugly, a terrible contrast to the deep blue it runs along and between. I suppose they want the invalid to be happier, but not too happy. After all, isn't yellow supposed to brighten a room? That's how everything is here, almost there but not quite right. It is never really what the inhabitant needs.

I try not to look at the yellow.

The floor, of which I can only see a small bit due to being confined to a bed, is tiled, for easy cleaning and smooth transport of medicine or meals. Like a prison uniform in its color and starkness, the chips and dips add character and interest, allowing the boring tiles to take on individual qualities. My favorite is the one the nurse and cart avoids, due to half of its entity having broken off long ago. Though it is no longer whole, it still functions. It does not need to be replaced, as it performs its job well enough, and it still fits in with the rest of the floor despite its handicap. I wish I could be more like that tile; good enough to fit in with the masses. It would solve many of my problems.

Other objects in my room include the television, the bed, the table, and the chair. The television is usually off, pointless in its placement, available for visitors who become too bored with waiting for me to react but cannot leave early do to manners and other such idiotic ideas. I have no use for it. I don't even understand why it is in here. A television is for muggles. Maybe it is to distract those normal folk who have to come due to magical exposure. All I know is that I don't watch it even when it is on, and hate when someone goes to switch it on initially. The static sounds awful, and reminds me of only unpleasant ideas and memories. The only stations chosen by my visitors are news, which seem to relay the number of deaths in different parts of the world more than anything else. Personally, I still prefer the ceiling.

The bed is what I live in. I sleep on the level mattress when I can, and sit up otherwise. Sadly, this means I have to sleep sitting up, but I have moved past the irritation of that with time. It's not as I haven't slept in more uncomfortable places before. And here, they take much better care of me. The pristine white sheets and flat pillow are replaced each day, to keep away infections or something, and the mattress switches monthly to preserve my... back I believe it is. I don't know. The nurse is always telling me things I do not need to know, just to keep the one-sided conversation flowing. The mattress bit was not one of the most interesting tidbits she has exchanged with me. No one thinks of this bed fondly, or even has any recall of it. There is no character in this bed, with no life or meaning. My old bed had memory, even before I came to it, having provided for students for far too long to think back to. Beyond that, my cupboard cot even contained my memories of quiet peace and play. Even in that place, the bed had at least a little life to it. This bed is nothing but substance. It is only the materials that make it. I hate it.

The table is, again, not for me. It is for the weary to place their coffee, or rest their book after hours of alternating between begging me to talk and reading silently to themselves. It is metal, cold and unforgiving to those who accidentally fall asleep upon its half-reflective top. I have no reason to desire it, with nothing to place and no need to see my face.

The chair is the worst part of the room. The piece of furniture is simple enough, with dull green cushions tearing apart and lackluster legs with rubber stoppers glued to the bottom, which make one of the worst noises on earth. It is not the object that bothers me so much. It is that squeak. That is the noise of defeat. It is the sound of someone leaving. It is where the visitors sit, those who still think I will come back to them and save the day. They need someone to be brave for them and overcome what they cannot. Most stopped caring long ago, on to looking for a new savior, I am sure. But the few who remain always make that noise when they leave, pushing the chair out from under them.

I never know if they are coming back to make the noise again.

Not that it would make a difference.

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_Tell me what you think in a review - the next chapter should be up in a week or so. _

_GypsyGrl77_


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't understand. Why won't he talk with us? What'd we do? **

**For the past three months, Harry's remained unresponsive to us, even to Hermione. He won't speak when we're around, he refuses to eat for Madam Pomfrey, and he doesn't even seem to hear us anymore. Bloody Hell, I could scream at the top of my lungs that I thought Malfoy's a great shag, and Harry would still just blink at me mindlessly, or stare at the ceiling again. What's with the staring at the ceiling all the time, anyway?**

**Ever since returning from summer break with his aunt and uncle, not to mention that fat and ugly cousin of his, Harry won't move. He sat down on the Hogwarts Express without a word, and refused to get off. After that, he was put in a special section of the Hospital Wing, as most of the teachers thought he had some dark curse on him or something. There wasn't anything wrong. There still isn't, except for Harry not moving or talking. **

**I just don't get it. **

**The only reason I'm even writing this down is that Hermione said I needed to let out my frustration on something other than other students, especially her. She's stressed out enough, thank you very much, and she doesn't need a prat like me to remind her that her best friend's practically in a coma for no reason. Then, she just runs off to the library to discover another possible disease, muggle or magical, that Harry could have. This leaves me alone, to wonder what on Earth I could've done to deserve the loss of both my best friends. How lucky am I, right? I mean, he's **_**my**_** best friend too!**

**And since when does Hermione use words like "prat," anyway?**

**Just another reason Harry needs to talk again. **

**I know that Harry must have a good reason for acting like this. I mean, why else would he cut himself off from everyone? My mum's cried to him multiple times to just say he's fine, just once, so she won't have to worry so much. He can't even do that. He won't even do that for my mum, who treats him like a son.**

**He won't talk to me, either. **

**I go to see him every day. At first, I stared at him, thinking he had some horrible vision or dream through You-Know-Who again, and I really didn't want to make it worse for him. I know how he blames himself, as if he were the one to torture and kill those innocent or on our side. He even feels bad about hurting the Death Eaters. Personally, I think that the slime-balls deserve what's coming to them for following that maniac, but that's just me. So, I thought Harry'd retreat into himself for a while, like he usually does, and then insist on talking to Dumbledore about a coming attack or Hermione and me about Sirius's death replaying in his head. I mean, that's what usually happens. Then Harry—admittedly a bit more moody, but still practically back to normal—would ask to play a game of chess and skive off on our Astronomy homework until breakfast the next day, when we'd guilt at least half the answers out of Hermione. But, right now, Harry doesn't want to talk to **_**anybody**_**. **

**Harry's currently in is own section of the Hospital Wing, which looks different than any other part of the castle. It's behind a picture in Pomfrey's office, who actually is a very pretty lady in a yellow dress named Bea, and it's designed to be the place to take muggles if some absolutely need to be in Hogwarts. According to Hermione, **_**Hogwarts, a History**_** says that it's only been used twice before, and that was during wars when the muggles would have died instead. Once, when it was the wizards who started it and ended up getting the King and Queen in another country beheaded. France, I think it was... or Germany . I can't really remember. And the other time, it was a muggle killing off everyone in Europe , and the families had to go somewhere safe. It's not like we want all the muggles dead or anything. Of course, after the war ended, their minds were wiped to be safe, but the room's an extra precaution. **

**Now I sound like Hermione listing off all this background information. Great, maybe I'm off my rocker as well. **

**Back to Harry. His room looks like, I'm told, an average muggle hospital room. He has a bed, a metal table, an ugly chair, and a "tee-vee" that muggles watch shows on. The contraption even works—but I don't ever use it. I've a feeling Harry doesn't like it on. **

**I know that he's still there. **

**I talk to him when I go to sit—about anything, really. Sometimes I complain about Snape being his slimy self, assigning way too many inches of parchment per night that I'm sure he'll make Harry catch up on once he's functioning again. I ramble about how impossible my family is—how Percy's a pompous git who thinks he's better than all of us combined three times, how Ginny flirts with older guys all of the time and seems to have lost all sense of decency, how Fred and George never did much of anything work-wise at school and still have managed to be the most successful and inventive of any Weasley, how Charlie's so far away from all of us it sometimes feels like he isn't even part of the family anymore, how my dad works too hard to support us and never seems to get his fair share at the Ministry, and how my mum's falling apart about everything wrong with all of us including Harry himself. About how I need him back in my life to be me again, and how Hermione seems to be losing herself. **

**-**

**When I'm not talking, I read. Yes, I know this's weird. I feel weird writing it down, though not as weird as it seems that I'm even writing anything outside of schoolwork. But I do read. I read one book, over and over again. I don't know if I'd even call it a book, to be honest—more of a listing. It has story after story of miracles that have happened to wizards who seemed incurable. The ones that the nurses and the medi-wizards and the entire world thought were done for, and managed to make it back somehow. Harry's going to be in a book like that some day, if I have anything to do about it. He'll be okay. **

**He will. **

**Everyone else's having problems dealing with Harry's current problem as well. And it's not even just those that are close to him. I mean, of course, I'm a little off—he's my best mate. And of course, Hermione's camping in the library to make everything better with her precious books. And of course, my mum won't stop crying. But I've already been over these people. It's some of the others that are strange. **

**Such as Neville. Instead of doing the normal Neville thing to do when Harry's in the Hospital Wing—freak out and ask Hermione and I all the time if he's better—Neville's pretending that Harry's gone. Or maybe that he never even was here. Whenever news comes about Harry, Neville'll walk out of the room. If a teacher makes a reference to him, Neville'll ask to leave the class. Neville's not been to see Harry once since he was taken to the Hospital Wing, and he's had every opportunity to come with someone else. He always says no. Neville's usually such a caring person about everyone, even more worried about Harry with the always-present threat of You-Know-Who hanging over his head. But he doesn't care. I don't get him either. **

**Another one being off is Lupin. With Sirius gone and Lupin the last of Harry's parents' friends to look after Harry, I thought that he'd be coming every day. He's now Harry's only "dad" that's left, and, if it were me, I would want him to come all the time. But he's only come once, at the very beginning, and checks in with Dumbledore every two weeks for around thirty seconds. **

**I was there for one of them. **

**Lupin looked more frail than ever, as if he were about to fall to pieces. His face was pale and dirty, and he seemed bloody awful to me. He glanced around to find Dumbledore, asked if there was any change, and then was gone. Now, from what I've heard and seen, I know that Lupin cares about Harry a lot. Why, then, would he skip out on seeing him while Harry's falling apart? Harry could never get better and he doesn't seem to give a flying hippogriff. **

**We're all waiting for a change, though. **

**After three months of waiting, though I'd lost my patience long before, Pomfrey decided that enough was enough. She couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, didn't believe that there was a "physical ailment he had sustained" that she would have missed, and was positive the whole problem was mental.**

**Not mental, like impossible or stupid. Like Harry had issues in his head.**

**Well, I guess both definitions work there, actually. **

**Anyway, once Pomfrey decided that she'd no real ability to fix Harry's problem, she decided that she was going hand off the problem to someone else. She's not really that great with "sociologic" stuff, as she said, which Hermione explained to me means understanding people's minds and actions like a disease or something like that. So now, Dumbledore's going to hand Harry off to another staff member. The only problem's who he chose. **

**Snape—the greasy git. **

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Thanks to my beta - Sparkling Mist -who always does such a great job.

Please review - Until next time- GypsyGrl77


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